Unpaved Roads
by jyorraku
Summary: It absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead.
1. Her Name

A/N: I have the strangest desire to drive a KIA.

A tall, but otherwise nondescript man stood at the bottom of the carpeted stairs of a dilapidated apartment building. He turned to check the tenant directory stapled haphazardly on the dingy lobby's peeling wallpaper and found the name. He didn't climb as much as he lumbered up the stairs. His steps were heavy thuds against the worn threads beneath his boots. Three measured knocks on a door at the end of the hall brought forth a lanky girl with a lit cigarette between her fingers and pink curlers in her dirty blond hair.

She eyed him warily. "What?"

"Alexandra Udinov?"

The girl took a quick puff before blowing smoke into the man's unblinking eyes. "That depends. Who wants to know?"

"Alexandra Udinov?" the man repeated, his face encased in perpetual stillness. Unreadable.

Rolling her eyes, the girl extinguished her cigarette on the splintering door frame. "Fine, yeah, that's me, what do you-" She never got to finish before her torso exploded in a Pollock mess of cursive red and muscled guts. Her body fell back with a wet squish and her arms followed with two dull thumps.

The man dispensed two more bullets into the head of the twitching corpse until even Alexandra Udinov's dentist would find identification impossible. He stepped out of the threshold and walked down the stairs with the same pace he'd use to walk up, oblivious to the horrified screams and yelps that echoed behind him. There were more individuals named Alexandra Udinov on his list.


	2. A Tangent

"Perry, I could stand to hear some good news," John Connor uttered wearily as he descended into the shadowed recesses of the Tech-Com bunker with his right hand man, Major General Justin Perry. The bustling hallways of people were sharp relief against the battle worn terrains of post Judgment Day earth. But today, he needed more.

Perry appeared glad he could actually oblige. "The Jimmy Carter docked over an hour ago. Full cargo."

John fell silent for a short beat. Of all the maritime transports, the Jimmy Carter held a special significance, but it wasn't time, not yet. On the other hand, full cargo meant someone was feeling generous. Far be it for him to look at gift horse in the mouth, but magnanimity wasn't something he associated with her. John gave the tall man walking beside him a sideway glance. True enough, there was more to be said, just not outside closed doors. He waited for the other shoe to drop as the steel reinforced doors of Command closed with a mechanical thump.

"Begging your pardon, sir. It's full cargo plus three," Perry continued as he handed over a folder marked in red block letters 'Eyes Only'.

John thumb opened the folder and paused upon recognizing the code name on the submarine manifest. He'd long since mastered his facial expressions and defaulted to a blankness that seemed to work as commanding stoicism. But for her to come all this way and leave her position vacant, John couldn't help the slightest lift of his eyebrow. "ETA?" he asked.

"They're at the outpost now."

"Authorize their passage," John said. Before Perry could leave to carry out his orders, he added tightly, "And add two more units to patrol and perimeter. Nothing is to happen while she's here."

Perry nodded. "Already done, sir."

Left to his own devices, John wondered again what could have brought her here. Despite the wealth of his knowledge for non-linear time, playing these complex three dimensional games with Skynet meant that as changes rippled through time and space, he would likely encounter more interlopers. So far, this particular game piece appeared to be his advantage. Yet, he knew better than anyone that could change with a simple switch or new lines of code.

It was fifteen minutes before the knock came at the door. John opened the door to Alexandra Udinov, escorted by two of her own soldiers and two of his. They each directed their soldiers to stand guard as the two leaders of the world's human resistance against Skynet convened to speak behind closed doors.

If there was anyone alive who could understand John and lived as he did, under the enormous weight of his responsibilities, it was Alex, although it was still just a remote similarity for the daily grind of command. She knew nothing of the chess games of Connor vs. Skynet. They could only start to really compare notes if machines were sent back in time to kill her parents.

On the other hand, Tech-Com could hardly run as smoothly as it did without the supply runs from Perth. Zetrov's reach on the Asian-Australian continents was to the benefit of the human resistance in the Americas. There was no formal agreement between their commands to share supplies and resources, but John was grateful for Alex's muted acknowledgement of Tech-Com's needs.

"Udinov," John greeted lightly.

Alex assessed the room briefly before focusing back on him with a small smile. "Connor."

They sat on two metal folding chairs, their backs to the wall, somehow facing each other with eyes on the only exit in the room. Their unspoken synchronicity brightened the mood, if for a bit.

"I hear they call you the Czarina now," John started.

"It humbles next to the Messiah," Alex returned drolly. Her gaze flickered to the door one last time before setting the full weight of her cobalt eyes on him. There was no smile left in her voice. "And yet, you owe me."

John had been expecting this since news of her arrival. "I appreciate the supply runs—"

Alex silently placed a picture on the table in front of them. John inhaled sharply as he willed himself to remain seated with a resemblance of calm as his heart raged within his chest. She pushed it toward him, though he didn't need to look any closer. He knew that picture anywhere. He would need it soon, and a fickle but fateful destiny all but dropped it in his lap. Suddenly, he ached for his mother's embarrassingly tight, tight embrace. But she wasn't here, the cancer hadn't wanted to share the victory of bringing down Sarah Connor. It alone decreed the rite of death and accomplished what Skynet couldn't. When Sarah gave that picture to Alex, it was a message for him. He would have to settle for this representation of her, this surrogate, here to bring the circle to a close once more. John searched Alex's face and saw an all too familiar steel gaze. At least, there was that. But the chess player in him was instantly on guard at the calculating glint in her eyes as she spoke again.

"You owe me more than you know."

He did, but Alex's next words would inexplicably throw another cog in the game he wasn't sure he could win.

"And now I've come to collect."


	3. An Offer

"Base, this is Alpha patrol."

The disembodied voice was calm and steady. Which meant there was enough time for Owen to set down the M4 he was modifying and wipe the gun grease off his fingers before pressing the radio to talk. "Shift's not over yet, Gomez. Embrace the suck."

The radio crackled. "That's what I told your mom last night. Sir."

As much as Owen wanted to claim he was not amused, he was. Alicia Gomez was a soldier down to her bones, but she had her own way of showing she wasn't just one of the boys. "Does Birkhoff know you kiss him with that mouth?" he asked, and then of course instantly regretted leaving himself open like that.

"Oh," Alicia exclaimed breathlessly. Her voice lowered an octave as she struck back saucily, "He wouldn't have it any other way."

All right. He did walk right into that one. Owen realized he wasn't going to benefit from this conversation, much less win it. The less he knew about Birkhoff's love life, the better.

Sensing his defeat, Alicia's tone switched on a dime. "I've got friendlies incoming," she reported flatly, "Get the CO on the horn."

That was hardly worth the call. Usually friendlies were news carriers from camps beyond the valley. A can of unlabeled food stuffs and blankets for the night would get them through. Even tunnel rats who tunneled too far out could also be classified as friendlies if they checked out medically and mentally stable—truthfully none of them could be too picky about their friends anymore, not with most of humanity gone. Anyone else who warranted their commanding officer's attention wouldn't just show up unannounced. Owen wondered if Alicia had been bathing under the nuke hazed sunlight for too long. "Gomez, he's not going to care if we've got an extra mouth or two to feed." With Mr. Bleeding Heart at the helm-his scowl could peel rust off metal but anyone who checked out got to stay if they wanted to. "Just run the protocols."

"Protocol says this is above my pay grade." The signal went silent for a few tens of a second, and when Alicia came back, her voice rose to an uneven pitch. "And yours. All of ours combined. Get him now. I'm not fucking kidding, Owen."

What the hell? Christ, was the queen of deadpan flustered? Has the world ended, again, when he wasn't looking? Owen could try to venture a guess as to who was coming to dinner, but based on Alicia's baffling reaction, it was best if he found their bunker leader instead. As Owen got up, it hit him, he hadn't seen the man all day. Radio in hand, he crossed the dim corridor and stuck his head into the doorway of the tech room. Inside, a brown haired figure sat hunched over table of circuitry.

"Birkhoff, where's Batman?"

The figure glanced up. Behind the crooked frames of his glasses, Birkhoff rolled his eyes. "Turn on the bat signal and find out," he answered unhelpfully before returning to investigate his electronic components.

"He's not here; you don't have to be offended for him." Despite the tech's general prickliness, Birkhoff didn't like it when anyone else but him besmirched their leader. But Owen couldn't possibly be the first person to notice the vocal similarities. Anyway, now was hardly the time to argue the point. "Where the hell is he?"

Birkhoff tossed Owen a gesture made of a distended middle finger.

Owen raised an eyebrow. Extra testy. Birkhoff must have gotten an earful today, or something. What was happening today that would make-"Shit, what's the date?"

Birkhoff snorted. "Aaaaand he finally gets it. Why are you second in command again?"

As much as Owen would like to stay and discuss command logistics with Birkhoff, he needed to find their errant leader. Radioing him didn't seem appropriate, not today.

"Hey!" Birkhoff yelped, hand clutching tightly on his chair's arms as Owen pushed the chair, with him still in it, into the radio room.

Owen slapped the receiver into Birkhoff's free hand before Birkhoff could get up. "Tell Gomez we'll be back in an hour. You're in charge. See what you can do about the friendlies she's going on about."

"What?" Birkhoff balked. "Who the what?"

Owen openly ignored any and all questions and protestations from the tech and made his way out of the bunker, heading west. It was a surprisingly clear night. Owen found the off beaten path under the glowing guide of the moonlight. As he climbed the bluff, he could hear the crashing waves of the ocean, powering the salty breezes in the air. He finally reached the top, leading to a plateau that stood above a dark and roiling sea, and saw the person he had been trying to find staring silently out into the murky horizon. Not all of Owen's huffing was a result of the climb.

"Really, Michael? A flat clearing on a clear night? If I had been metal—"

"-then the metal and I would both be in a happier place right now." Michael spoke with his back to Owen, but he held out an arm. Attached to that arm was a fist that held a pressure release detonator connected to a half a brick of C4.

"Jesus," Owen exclaimed under his breath. He knew today was going to be rough, but Michael wasn't even bothering to deny that he was asking for it. Owen rolled his shoulders, forcing the tension in them to disperse as he stepped up next to Michael. "Now there's two of us here, I think we can take on a machine or two," he coaxed, carefully wrapping his hand around Michael's fist until he was the one handling the makeshift bomb and preventing it from blowing them to kingdom come. Michael glanced sideways at Owen as he did this. He acquiesced with silence as Owen took the detonator pins out of the C4. When Owen released the short breath he had been holding, Michael gave him a mocking half smile. Now was the best time to develop a facial tic, Owen decided. At least, later, when he blacks Michael's eye, he could tell Michael that he should have seen it coming.

Michael didn't give Owen the opening, he turned back to watching the ocean waves rolling in. The silence was making Owen itch. Finally, Michael spoke. "She likes…liked the water. It washes away the dirt and you come out clean," he said, a little insensibly.

Owen's itch went away, only to be replaced by a lead weight pressing on his chest. Yes, Nikita would have liked it here. "Never thought we'd outlive her," Owen muttered as he stared at the ground. He spotted several dandelions in front of Michael's worn combat boots. Dandelions, the tough little fuckers survived the nuclear apocalypse. No doubt Nikita would have too, if things had been different, Owen lamented. A second later, a mighty wind gripped the wild flowers. Michael closed his eyes as the loose florets fluttered about him. There was a faraway look about Michael then that Owen didn't particularly like.

"Gomez said we have visitors, asking for you," Owen reported.

Michael's eyes snapped open, and despite the visible strands of gray in his hair, his gaze sharpened like a hawk. "We're not expecting anyone," he stated, though he glanced at his second in command for confirmation.

Owen shook his head. "Whoever they are, Gomez is freaking out. Says this is above everyone except you."

Frowning, Michael raised Alicia over the radio. They heard two clicks and the speaker went silent. Line possibly insecure, radio silence requested. Someone important was in their bunker and they couldn't risk communications leaking to machines or other humans. So far, so good, if unexpected.

"She ran them through the protocols?" Michael asked as they started their descent back down the bluff.

Owen knew what Michael was thinking. There were grays and jackals to be worried about. There were also reports of machines that mimicked humans, not just in voice. But he didn't think any of this was about that. They planned six ways till Sunday for those possibilities. Besides, "It's Gomez," Owen replied as an obvious answer.

Michael took a second, but he nodded in agreement with Owen's assessment. Freaked out or not, Alicia Gomez was not one for shortcuts, not when it came to the safety of the bunker. Nonetheless, the men's legs jogged faster, even as the clouds came rolling in, obscuring the light of the moon and throwing shadows into their path. They quickly came across Bravo patrol, the soldiers were alert and gave Michael and Owen no indication of trouble. That was a good sign, at least.

When they finally arrived at the bunker, Alicia was waiting at the entrance. There were two other soldiers and a dog with her. Owen didn't recognize them, nor did he appreciate where the gun sight of their HK416's were pointing. "Sirs!" Her eyes were bright.

"You want to tell us what this is about, Gomez?" Owen asked, annoyed and a little pissed off. Okay, a lot pissed off.

"I can't," Alicia said, swallowing.

Owen felt his facial tic returning. That was until Michael scanned the tags on the soldier's uniforms, his eyes going wide. Owen was about to ask when Michael leaned down and scratched the dog under its chin. Michael was rewarded with a hearty lick. The soldiers' guns lowered and they stepped aside, allowing Michael and him inside.

Owen blinked. He had an inkling of who was inside the bunker, even if it was the remotest of possibilities. People went to him, he didn't come to them.

Another four soldiers stood at the threshold of the command room, flanking the entrance, carrying the same hardware, but wearing different fatigues. Two had the same as those outside the bunker, the other two had a different camo pattern. Their tags displayed Russian letters. Owen frowned, this was getting stranger by the minute. He glanced at Michael, but his face was inscrutable.

They entered the room, and there he was. John Connor. Owen stared, he had never gotten use to seeing the man. When he had first seen John Connor about two years ago, he thought John Fucking Connor would be taller. Older. More regal. Larger than life. He wasn't and yet, he was. Owen had seen a lot in his life, but he had a feeling John Connor lived through more shit than he had in his philosophy.

"Samuelle. Elliot."

"Sir." Michael and Owen responded in tandem, but their training beckoned them to survey the room further, even with Connor standing before them. Their eyes flickered to the figure standing in the shadows behind Connor. Owen narrowed his eyes as the figure shifted. A woman. But Michael drew a sharp breath before Owen could determine who she was. Owen glanced at Michael, whose jaw had clenched so tight that it hurt him to look at it, then back at the woman.

"I brought an old friend," Connor was saying.

She stepped out into the light and offered a greeting. "Hello, Michael."

Of all the bunkers. Owen swore.

"Alexandra." Michael's eyes were dull and flat, as if he was staring right through her insignificance.

Alex canted her head and smiled humorlessly at the cold reception. "I have a proposition for you."

Michael replied instantly, "There's nothing—"

Raising a hand to her mouth, Alex chuckled demurely.

The hairs on Owen's neck rose. She reminded him so much of her. Amanda the Inquisi-Owen heard the movement before he saw it, and before he could fully comprehend what happened, four pairs of boots stamped inside and four gun sights aligned with Michael at the end of their targets. But Michael's P90 didn't waver from Alex's head. Owen's own semi was pointed at the soldier closest to him, but the soldier's aim held steady on Michael. They would die to protect John Connor, or in the case of the Russians, Alexandra Udinov. There were too many of them and the pair too important. Owen's eyes went to Connor, and breathed a silent prayer that the man seemed content to let this all play out on its own. Now he just needed to know what the fuck Michael was doing. "Michael," Owen called out quietly.

Michael wasn't listening to him. He only wanted to listen to one person. And that person looked all too complacent with a gun pointed at her head.

"Talk."


	4. An Intersect

Alex stood in the icy control room of the bubble chamber. A large panel of observation glass separated her, Connor, and the bubble tech from the lone man on the other side. The glass was transparent, but Michael wasn't looking at them. His mind appeared to be thousands of miles away. Or perhaps, years into the past. While the tech was busy pounding away at the configuration of the time machine, she remembered Owen's parting words to her.

Haven't you done enough?

Alex thought she was immuned to sentimentality. She had to be, even more so since Judgment Day. But seeing Michael had inflamed the feelings and memories of the old Alex. And despite everything that had happened: Division, Zetrov, J-Day, her bones ached with hollowness. And there was no time to stop and lick her wounds. Alex had impatiently waited for this moment since the day she had gazed up at the newly ruined sky with Sarah Connor's picture in her hand. Now that her plans were coming to fruition, the desperation behind it all made her normal defenses weak. Alex swallowed harshly. Her gaze couldn't help but gravitate towards her old handler. But would be no reassurances in Michael's shuttered glances and patent scowls today. There hadn't been in a long, long time.

"He doesn't like you," Connor said, breaking Alex's reverie.

Alex was silent for so long that Connor seemed to think she wasn't going to speak at all. When she finally found her voice, it was steady and devoid of any inflection, sadness, and regret. "He shouldn't. I killed his girlfriend."

Connor observed Alex's unblinking eyes, staring unseeingly in front of her. He smiled grimly. "We all have our crosses to bear."

Connor's words settle for a few seconds before Alex slowly turned to face him, her brow furrowed with cautious bemusement. But the Messiah was all seriousness. A tiny smile grew across Alex's face. "Yes, some more than others."

Before Connor could decipher that smile, the tech signaled the machine was ready.

"Okay. We're set here. Get ready," the tech announced. "Counting down. Ten…nine…"

For the first time since their meeting, Michael caught Alex's eyes. No words were exchanged, but suddenly Alex knew Michael saw her as Alex again, not Alexandra. Air escaped her lungs in a rush and she felt a twinge in her nose.

"Eight…se—shit!"

Alex's head jerked sideways to see the tech frowning at the computer display in front of him. Alex rushed towards the tech, her pulse racing, feeling Michael's gaze following in the other room. But Connor seized Alex's arm and pushed her away. He waved the tech aside and took over the controls.

"The time variable is fluctuating. It's too late to stop it," Connor said as he read the output.

"What does that mean?" Alex shouted over the rising cacophony in the bubble chamber.

Connor yelled some words but Alex could no longer hear him. From the expression on Connor's face, it wasn't good. Beyond the thin chamber barrier, booming thunder interspersed with flashes of artificial lightning. Alex hurled around to face Michael, her eyes wide with alarm, then shielded herself as another burst of light erupted. Alex carefully squinted into the room and finally spotted Michael enclosed in a bubble of drifting lights, a dance of glowing fireflies. Michael was standing there, his expression a supernatural calm, his eyes curiously serene despite the unnerving performance he must have just seen through the window. He was growing transparent, a ghost inside the time machine. Alex raised her right hand and placed it flatly against the cold glass. The small hairs on her arms and neck rose at the bare contact, warning of the tumultuous forces inside.

"Good luck and good bye," Alex whispered.

The lights flickered once more and Michael was gone. All that was left were Michael's clothes slumped in a pile on the floor and the new echo of a deafening silence. Alex sensed Connor coming up behind her. Alex turned and started to ask, but before the first word exited her mouth, she stopped. Connor regarded Alex with a finality that spoke louder than words. Wherever or whenever Michael was, it was out of their hands. Michael was on his own.

The bubble tech stayed behind to find out just how far off Michael was compared to the original destination. Connor and Alex ascended back to command level in silence. It was how they heard the yelling before seeing the skirmish around the corner.

"Connor! Where's Connor? I need to find Kyle!"

"Reese! Calm the fuck down, we need to take you back to medical…"

"Com'on Derek, Fields is gonna have our ass if we don't get you back in one piece!"

Alex was startled when Connor quickly strolled forward and waved the men away from the man named Derek Reese. Reese was obviously delirious with fever, sweat was pouring off him and the sling that held his left arm appeared ready to unravel. Alex was admitted impressed by how Reese managed to elude the other soldiers with one arm incapacitated. She surreptitiously moved forward without stepping out of the dimmed corner.

Reese blinked as if he belated realized he was no longer being obstructed. He squinted against the light bulb on the wall above Connor and recognized who was standing right in front of him. "Connor. Where's Kyle? Damn it, Connor, where is my brother?" Reese slurred.

The two men next to Alex inhaled sharply. The older one sputtered, "Sir…"

Connor held up his hand. To Reese, Connor answered calmly, "I sent him on a solo recon."

Reese frowned, puzzled, like he couldn't comprehend, neither the words nor intention behind them. "He's just a kid...he's my little brother!" Reese exclaimed, his feet staggering with vehemence.

Connor made no move to help. Alex observed the distance Connor held between himself and Reese with interest. Connor didn't reach out to steady Reese nor did he looked pleased explaining himself to his subordinate, but Connor seemed to be inexplicably drawn.

"He needs to know how to act without backup," Connor added flatly.

Reese's eyes were unnervingly wide. "Why?"

A brief flinch crossed Connor's face. And just like that, Connor was done. He signaled to his men. "You don't need to know why. Are we clear, Lieutenant?"

The commanding tone pierced through Reese's haze immediately. "Yes, sir."

Reese fixed his gaze away from Connor as the men finally escorted him back to medical. Alex got the impression that the questions weren't all due to a fevered delirium. She waited until she and Connor were alone behind the steel doors once more.

"He doesn't like you," Alex said, primly crossing her legs.

Connor's eyes flickered to a thin metal flask on his table. Looking a little green, Connor replied evenly, "He shouldn't." He reached for the flask and tossed it back. "I'm going to kill his brother."

Alex wanted to laugh, but she didn't know if had it in her to stop. Swallowing the bubbling tension in her chest, Alex schooled her face and asked dryly, "And what part of the cross is he?"

With a gravity Alex didn't expect, Connor considered the question. He answered Alex with an odd smile.

"The Father."


	5. His Student

The woman on the stage gyrated on the pole like a broken automaton. Her eyes came with an impenetrable veneer but her movements carried the tattletale twitches of drug use. Michael watched her with a sneer with displeasure. It wasn't long before the bartender to sidle up in front of him. The burly man gave Michael a once over, taking note of the crisp lines of Michael's shirt and clean edges of the coat hanging off the back of the barstool. A slip of a dry cleaning label with the name of the four star hotel protruded from the pocket of the coat.

"American?" The bartender asked.

"Hm? Oh, yes," Michael answered dismissively, as if he wasn't sitting inside a dingy strip club, nursing a watered down scotch. And the junkie on stage was an exhibit of offensiveness, deserving of his undivided derision.

The bartender was more than willing to help. "You don't like what you see?" He spoke English, albeit with a thick Russian accent.

"No. She is a bit too…ripe," Michael answered, downing his drink. He set the tumbler down on a stack of bills and pushed both items towards the bartender. At the bartender's nonchalant glance at the rubles, Michael added, "Mr. Koutouza sends his regards."

The Russian all but shrugged at the name of the mafia boss, taking Michael's empty glass and refilling it. He passed it back to Michael. The coaster of bills was gone. The bartender dragged a rag over the bar table. Michael raised his refilled drink. There was less water in this one. He waited.

"There is a building five blocks south. Ask for Vladimir," the bartender muttered under his breath, his eyes downcast as he continued the pretense of cleaning the table top. He didn't see Michael's knuckles go white on the glass.

A bitter rush of adrenaline overcame Michael. Ever since he saw the date on the newspaper inside the first gas station he came upon, he had been searching for a sign to get back on the right track. Vladimir Ivanov was that sign. He made a show of stumbling as he exited the club. It was almost funny, how humans watched for subtle clues while machines would just kill you on the spot. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bartender picking up the phone, presumably dialing Vlad. There would be no time for recon-he would just have to play it by ear.

The brothel had one man stationed outside. Michael shuffled up to the man with a meandering gait.

"I need to check you for weapons," the guard said without preamble. "No guns or knives allowed."

Michael's eyes were purposely shifty as he raised his arm without protest. The guard's shoulders relaxed just before he proceeded with the pat down. As the guard leaned down to check Michael's legs, Michael clapped the heel of his hands over the guard's head, boxing the man's ears. A knee flew up into the concave of the guard's abdomen. Michael hooked the guard's neck, and squeezed his muscled forearm into the path of the arota. The struggle was short. Before the guard could faceplant onto the concrete sidewalk, Michael propped him up against the wall and found on the guard a pack of cigarettes, a GSh-18 pistol, and a two way radio. Michael shoved a cigarette between the man's lips so that for anyone just walking by, it was just a man on a smoke break. After unloading the magazine and taking count of the rounds, Michael reloaded and racked a round into the chamber of the handgun. The magazine wasn't full. It meant Vlad wasn't expecting trouble, but Michael didn't have any ammunition to waste either. He muffled the mike on the radio and held it at a distance before reporting on a drunken customer. Thankfully he still remembered his Russian. He situated himself in a blind spot from the door and waited.

As another guard opened the door, Michael slammed the unsuspecting man's head against the wall before the man cleared the threshold. Michael pushed the unconscious guard in and quick searched him, finding another pistol and a pair of handcuffs. He made quick work of checking the magazine. A flicker of light brought Michael's attention to the guard's belt and he berated himself for not seeing it. Metal necks don't choke, Michael reasoned as he whipped the belt off and wounded it around his left hand.

Before turning the corner, Michael heard two male voices, and a female, crying. He crouched on one knee and snuck a glance. A beefy man held a girl faced down on an office table while another man, Vlad, pumped a dark liquid into her veins. Michael quickly holstered his gun and unwound the belt, snapping it tight between his hands.

While the men were distracted, Michael silently rushed at the larger man, hooking the belt over the neck. As the man reared back with a strangled gasp, Michael viciously yanked at one end of the belt, turning the body like a top. Michael rammed the heel of his right hand up the man's nose. The body went lax and slumped to the floor with a thud.

Caught by surprise, Vlad scrambled back from the struggle. Since his weapon of choice was usually a syringe, Vlad had to rush to open a drawer under his desk. Just as Vlad started to reach in for the gun, he felt the cold circle of a muzzle pressing into the crown of his head.

"Hands."

Vlad briefly considered pretending not to understand English, but the pressure from the muzzle increased until he tilted his head up. Vlad saw the face of the man who incapacitated his bodyguards.

"What do you want?" Vlad asked, holding his hands up high.

Michael snapped the one end of the handcuff on Vlad and secured the other end to a rusting pipe that hung low from the ceiling. Stepping back, Michael made sure there was nothing within Vlad's reach. Satisfied, he replied, "A girl you bought recently. Sasha."

Vlad exhaled noisily as if this was familiar territory and boasted, "I have many girls named Sasha…"

Michael glanced down at the unmoving girl still lying on Vlad's desk. The syringe had broken off during the fight and a jagged needle poked through her bruised and needle pocketed skin. He didn't know how old she was, but her red and purple wrist was a little more than the diameter of a quarter. Bile rose to the back of his throat and the edges of his vision tinted with red. He lowered the gun to Vlad's crotch and set his finger on the trigger. "I have just as many bullets."

Shrinking back, Vlad raised his chin and gestured to a narrow door to Michael's right. "She's through there. Third room down."

Michael didn't move, nor did the gun. There was no more space to back up. Vlad hastily added, "She's there. I promise you! Go see!" Even as Michael's hand moved, Vlad took one look into Michael's eyes and tried to curl up into himself, making himself as small and inoffensive as possible. The stinging whip of a pistol effectively terminated the conversation.

In a narrow bed covered in stained sheets, Michael found Sasha—or rather, Alex—curled up, fitfully asleep. Her bare arms were covered in bruises, her cheeks mottled with dried tears. Reconcile this wisp of a girl with the razor edged woman he knew took more than Michael had imaged. He gently shook her awake, trying to remain focused and not gag at the evidence of abuse that existed here. Thankfully, Alex's eyes were clouded with sleep and confusion rather than the junkie shade of obliviousness. Alex quickly squirreled away from him, fear chasing away sleep as her eyes reflected the horror she'd come to expect from strange men standing by her bedside.

Michael made no sudden moves and for the first few seconds it was just a staring contest between the both of them. Finally, he asked, "Do you want to live?"

There was fear in Alex's young eyes, but a word slipped out in a shaky, desperate whisper. "Yes…"

The child-like voice pierced straight through him. But Michael had train many Division recruits before, though none were as young as Alex was now, so he knew he had to be cognizant of how this all fits in the grand scheme of things. Sympathy and anger at Alex's circumstances wouldn't be enough. He would have to ask for her resolve, the resolve she will need for the future, come what may. "Is that a question?"

By then Alex had an inkling that Michael wasn't one of those men who wanted to do those horrible things to her. There was glittering hope in her eyes as she choked out with a sob, "I want to live!"

"Then come with me." Michael held out his hand for her.

Alex gazed up at Michael, her lips trembling as she tentatively reached for him. She stopped when her hand was merely centimeters from his, afraid that he would disappear upon her touch like a mirage. With a hard swallow, Alex finally took Michael's hand. She expelled a breath and made small choking sobs. His hand was a hair's breath away from the top of Alex's head when Alex whispered, "I want to go home."

His hand tightened into a fist. Home. Michael wanted to laugh. When Nikita died, his home turned to ashes with her. And civilization would burn soon enough if Skynet wasn't stopped. Michael stared down at his unknowing charge. Somewhere on the other side of the planet, in this past, Nikita was alive. Another Michael was still toiling away for Percy. He had to stop it, all of it, or he would die trying.

"Stay behind me and be quiet." They headed back the direction Michael entered. Alex gaped at the fallen bodyguard in the office and saw Vlad stir and agitate against the handcuffs. She quickened her pace to catch up with Michael.

Upon realizing he was somehow still alive, Vlad deduced that killing him wasn't part of Michael's plan. He yelled Michael and Alex's retreating backs. "Filthy American pig!"

Alex stopped in her tracks. In a moment of intense bravado, she leapt across the dingy office and swung for Vlad's blotchy face. "You are the pig. You are the dirtiest pig in all of Russia," Alex spat, her chest heaving with disgust and hatred.

Michael silently observed the confrontation. He hadn't planned on killing anyone. The noise would bring out whatever unsavory customers were in the other rooms and perhaps attract Vlad's other associates in the neighborhood. But perhaps it was always meant to be. Michael came to stand behind Alex and leaned down to her left shoulder, and spoke in the place of an advisor, a counselor.

"Do you want him to die?"

Or someone not so kind.

Alex blinked at Michael with a mixture of confusion and apprehension, the pulse at her throat still speeding with adrenaline. Michael blankly returned her gaze, waiting. With a steadying tremble, her chin rose. Beneath the aristocratic tilt of her nose, the girl mouthed an answer.

"Yes."

Michael gave Alex short-lived half smile. She started with surprise as he laid a gun in her small open palm. He leaned sideways behind her to gather her other hand as she stood frozen in bewilderment.

"Your hands go together. Release the safety," Michael instructed simply as he placed her left hand over her right to steady the aim. Gripping Alex's forearm, Michael guided the aim over Vlad's head and torso as Vlad dripped with cold sweat. "When you are close, aim for the head. When you are far away, aim for the center."

Incredulous, Alex snapped her head around, only to see Michael staring expectantly at her. Flustered and red faced, Alex quickly turned back to facing Vlad. Wetting her cracked lips, she nervously inched forward, bringing the steel muzzle of the weapon closer to her target. Vlad watched as Alex's arms quivered under the unfamiliar weight.

The Russian sneered with new found impudence. "Blyat suka," he swore.

The quivering abruptly halted. Alex canted her head, her eyes narrowing into slits as her lips curled in a vicious snarl. "In English."

"Fucking bitch!" Vlad slurred defiantly, spittle flying.

"Thank you for explaining." Righting herself, Alex leveled the pistol between Vlad's eyes and continued soberly, "This is your reward."

Bang!

Hitching a breath, Alex shuddered at her own handy work, nearly dropping the gun. A crimson starburst painted the wall. Beneath the macabre work, a viscous pool of red continued to spread under the spasming limbs of the former Vladimir Ivanov. Alex gasped loudly for air—there wasn't enough of it in her lungs and her ears were still ringing. Michael came over to the body and wordlessly placed another shot through the temple.

Bang!

Alex jumped at the sound, shirking away. Another starburst and the smell of gunpowder in the small office intensified. Alex blinked owlishly at Michael, her breath now quiet as she breathed shallowly through her mouth.

Michael gave her a flinty stare. "Always shoot twice to make sure your target is dead. Do you understand?"

Alex nodded shakily, alternating the hold on her gun to wipe the sticky sweat from her palms.

"Good girl," Michael complimented tonelessly. "Gold star."


	6. A Splinter

They kept the windows open, not because the stolen truck reeked of cigarettes and twice fried grease, but because the evening air was clear and sweet. Alex was quietly bundled up to her chin, the wind whipping through her hair as she stared wordlessly out into the murky night. Michael faintly remembered a little girl who wouldn't stay in her car seat, always much too fond of open windows and high winds. The memory was lifetimes ago, etched into the ivory of his bones, but remained ragged and sharp beneath the layer of skin.

Michael shook off the weariness that settled over him, but it lingered like specks of ash beyond the spectrum of his sight. He might have left the machines behind but hell followed him like a burned out halo. He had brushed his teeth and rinsed repeatedly until his gums bled but he could still feel dust coating his mouth. Objectively, Michael knew he was exhibiting symptoms of post traumatic stress, but the moment he pulled his trigger on Vlad and felt nothing but annoyance at the kickback, he realized there was nothing 'post' about it. This much was certain, he needed his head to be cleared; he wasn't responsible for just the people in his bunker anymore. Alex was one stone in his hand, but in the water, she would ripple wide and far.

The truck came to a halt at a gas station convenience store. Michael surveyed the brightly lit interior as he obliquely drilled Alex, "How many rounds do you have?"

The GSh-18 pistol strapped to Alex's side had gone to pieces and back to whole over and over again until Alex knew its parts in the dark. By now Alex knew the number of bullets like the number of toes on her feet, never mind the fact that the gun's name was practically a cheat—Michael had given her a break.

"Eighteen, thirty-six with the magazine," Alex answered, then hesitantly, "What if I run out of bullets?"

"Then you run and hide," Michael replied in a clipped tone before exiting the truck. He was almost out when he felt the tug on his jacket.

Alex's youthful face was set with open determination. "You should show me how to fight back, not just to defend myself."

Michael chuckled derisively. "What do you want to fight with? Your fists? And your elbows, and your fingernails, and your teeth?" Memory reels of human carnage flashed before his eyes. He could taste the burning flesh and vaporized blood on his tongue. "Put flesh against metal and metal wins every time. If it wants you dead, you're dead."

Michael spoke with such certitude and authority that it provoked instinctive resistance within Alex's teenage mind. "My papa said he found a metal called coltan that was stronger than any other." Alex thought Michael was still talking about guns, even if what she offered was only tangentially related.

Michael froze. The endoskeletons of the T-triple eights were composed of coltan alloys. His eyes snapped to Alex, his fingers digging forcefully into her shoulders. "When was this? When did your father mention coltan?"

Taken aback, Alex winced at Michael's grip and stuttered, "A week…before…they killed everyone." Frowning, she continued to recall, "Sergei said they found it at southern part of the Respublika Altay and it would make a lot of money for Zetrov." Alex flushed. "It was a secret, Papa only told me because he caught me listening."

The Altai Republic was home to the tripoint of Russia, Mongolia, and China. Not exactly the ideal place to find a rare mineral that was, at the moment, the essential component of all electronic devices. Udinov and Semek would have wanted to keep it quiet to avoid the any power play between the two superpowers. But coltan would become the flesh of the terminators. Michael's thoughts quickened. For all that Skynet could do, it couldn't mobilize and kill without the bodies of the terminators. Sergei Semek might have succumbed to simple human greed when he ordered the hit on the Udinovs, but there was nothing human about the AI that would need the coltan to build its deadly soldiers.

"Is that why my parents were killed?" Alex gasped. "For the metal?"

"You have no idea," Michael muttered sardonically, before he caught a movement in the rear view mirror.

There was a man heading up to them. His face was a plastic blankness and he openly carried a compact assault rifle in his right hand. His stride was stiff and measured, in no hurry.

Michael could spot the carriage of a terminator in his sleep; it was the genesis of nightmares. And it hadn't seen them yet, he deduced from its standard roaming pace. He signaled Alex go quiet and get down in her seat. Alex obeyed, but not before she extricated her pistol, and steadied her grip with both hands, ready to shoot. The key was still in the ignition and Michael was ready to gun it when he heard the trill of a cell phone. The mechanical footsteps stopped.

Who the fuck was calling a terminator on a cellphone? Michael sat low and strained to hear.

"Da." It turned, walking away with new orders.

Alex roughly mopped the sweat around her temples with the inside of her elbows. Her stiffened hands wouldn't release, the gun still encased in her vice grip. Alert for signs of a trap, Michael hissed a sigh of relief when a small car drove past them on the road with the metal inside it.

"Who was that?" Alex asked when she found her voice.

"A terminator."

It spoke Russian. Michael's thoughts were in a jumble. Who was on the other side of that phone call? Did Skynet send someone back to secure the coltan?

The unfamiliar term furrowed Alex's brow, but she didn't need to understand it. The tension in Michael's shoulders and the scowl on his face told her what she needed to know. "Did Sergei send him?"

What did role did Semek play in this? The matrix of possibilities gnawed at Michael. None of the intel his Alexandra had given him resembled this.

"I don't know."

Michael also didn't know how much protection he could give to Alex when both Semek and Skynet had such a vested interest in her corpse. And he still needed to find a way to destroy the coltan. Alex was still too green to be an asset, if he brought her along she would only be a liability. On foreign soil with limited resources, there wasn't enough room to maneuver. If Nikita only was here. Nikita, she with more gambits than guns, his partner in arms and strategy, his heart in the soft curve of her lips. Her absence tore at him like pain from phantom limb, like bleeding out without the satisfaction of seeing blood.

Michael balled his hands into fists at the steering wheel. He had arrived too late. Fate was a fickle bitch, he tried to forestall, even prevent, the meeting of Alex and Nikita, but all he did was made it angry. They weren't even supposed to meet until Nikita went rogue. But right now the only person who gave a damn about Alex was Nikita—she would, and did, die for her. The circumstances were all but forcing him to send Alex to Nikita in the States so that he could follow the Zetrov trail to the coltan before it grew cold. Push was coming to shove, but for all the rationality that pushed him towards the inevitable, he couldn't do it, not when it meant history would repeat itself where Nikita was concerned. Every cell in his body rebelled, his skin hot with resistance. No, not duty over love. Not again.

A small hand came to shake him out of his inner struggle. "Don't worry, we're still alive," Alex consoled, her clear blue eyes huge in her face.

Michael stared roundly at Alex's clumsy attempt to comfort him. He lowered his glance to the delicate hollow of her neck, gaping through the layers of her scarf. His right hand alone could span the width of her fragile white throat, he mused darkly, fingers twitching. He saw her swallow at the sharp focus of his gaze. The movement broke through Michael's thoughts. He looked away, grimacing and shaken at the sinister path of his wayward mind.

It came to him then, at the very precipice of his conflicting emotions. The place and time fitted all too well. The cosmic elegance of it was cause for bitter amusement. His lips thinned. So be it.

Two days later Michael and Alex sat on bench inside a Pulkovo Airport arrival terminal in St. Petersburg. Alex was nervous, biting the insides of her right cheek. This would be her first 'mission' and she didn't want to fail the man who still wouldn't give her his name.

Michael wondered what would happen once they saw each other. How much of this was he fucking up? Time travel apparently didn't come with a manual for this situation, but he knew that this past had already been changed somehow—in for a penny, in for a pound, he supposed. It was almost a relief to prove to himself that time wasn't written in stone, otherwise what he was doing now was the very definition of paradoxical impossibility.

Minutes ticked by, and then Michael easily spotted his target. The man was having a hard time controlling the small smile on his lips as he strolled out the terminal, obviously looking forward to that certain rendezvous at the safehouse. It was all less dramatic than Michael had expected and he felt only blunt resolve as he caught Alex's eyes and silently directed her attention to the man. She nodded and quickly got to her feet, following with newly learned stealth. He rose a few seconds later and walked in another direction.

Alex was cautiously turning a corner when a hand jerked her off her feet from behind. She gasped and twisted, throwing out a jab that her target caught easily. He shoved back with a force that made her see stars and illusions, his eyes were such a familiar green. The man blinked in surprise at the unexpected youth of his tracker. "Why are you following me?" he growled.

His voice. Confusion knotted Alex's brow, then instinctively her gaze flickered to Michael as he came up noiselessly behind the man. Sensing movement, the man reached for his sidearm.

"I wouldn't do that," came Michael's warning.

"You're not me," the man retorted.

Michael smiled wryly. "Actually, I am," he said to his younger self. "Hello Michael."


	7. A Meeting

"You bought a house in Hawaii for Lizzie and Haley, the same one she saw in that housing cataloging. You were planning to surprise them on vacation. On the last day, you would tell Haley…" Michael held the eyes of his younger self and allowed the blistering anguish to sear through unobstructed. Haley's squeal of childish delight and Lizzie's gasp of joy had been ripped from existence, surviving only in his—their—fevered dreams. "…we are home."

The younger Michael stared and stared, unblinking against the mirage. He recovered with a flinch, drawing back before the conflagration swallowed him whole. "I've never told anyone about that," young Michael uttered, the last vestiges of disbelief gone.

Michael released a fist he didn't realize he was holding. He felt the ghost of slender fingers smoothing the furrows in his brow and allowed himself a brief smile. "It's not something you'd share with just anyone."

Crossing that 'time traveling' bridge was the hardest part, but it was ingrained in him, in the both of them, the ability to adapt, to synthesize, and regain advantage. No matter how fubar the situation, just think two steps ahead and forget about what it took to get there. Just be there and be ready for the next move.

Young Michael didn't ask old Michael about the apocalypse. He didn't ask him about the Russian girl curled up on the shedding loveseat in this sorry excuse of an airport VIP room. This Michael quickly completed an analysis of the situation and realized his older self would have it, that all consuming bit of intel. "Tell me where Kasim will be," he ordered, his face a walking wound of terrible rage.

Face to face with his younger self still cocooned within Percy's web of lies, Michael smothered a bitter laugh. His skin grew tight against the revulsion vibrating out of him. The sheer audacity, the cold and calculating deceit of his commanding officer resurfaced in a nauseating rush. With Kasim, the sides were clear, the lines drawn in blood. For Percy to recruit him, train him in the art of black ops, and take him under his wing as Division's second in command—Michael had no delusions about Percy's self-serving nature, but the willful betrayal of the years of service and loyalty gutted him. But as much was he wanted to reveal Percy's treachery to his past self, this was not the time to do so.

"Kasim will lay low for a while," Michael answered brusquely, not lying. "The botched op in Shanghai has the Chinese looking for his head and his superiors reconsidering his position. He'll be quietly refilling coffers, and then he'll resurface in 2008 to finish the job in Beijing."

Young Michael was considering this information, though it too early to be of immediate use. Michael knew that his counterpart was taut as a piano wire when it came to Kasim, no doubt playing to a tune that Percy had orchestrated the moment of his recruitment. "Kasim's not important," he blurted out, managing to be vague.

Incredulous, young Michael leveled a look of disgust at Michael, lips curled into teeth baring snarl. His Division issued gun unholstered but Michael came back with countermove that was too quick to be a simple reaction and the gun clattered to the floor. Michael then yanked his doppelganger forward, pulling him out of balance before clotheslining him into the nearest wall, a muted thud of body against drywall. Stopping short of knocking some sense into him, Michael clipped, "I'm you, you don't think I knew what you would do? You've believed everything I said so far, so why won't you believe me now?"

Young Michael was livid at Michael's blatant dismissiveness of his entire reason for being—to find Kasim and kill him-but a flash of movement caught his eye. He glanced sideways at the strange girl, now observing them with wariness, her right hand reaching beneath her coat.

Michael watched as his counterpart's anger shuttered into guarded stiffness. He smiled knowingly, not without pride. "Her name is Alexandra Udinov."

Alex all but raised her hackles as young Michael assessed her, trying to place the familiar name. His brows rose as the name registered with the Division operation last year.

"Someone helped her escape." Michael was amused by the facial contortions he witnessed as young Michael put the pieces together. "I don't need to tell you who," He added dryly, his eyes softly alit.

"Division can't find out," The Michael of this time determined, as if he wasn't another component of the Division leadership.

Michael knew that his regard for Nikita in the past was not exactly subtle, but it was another thing to watch himself, to his mild chagrin, already so obviously in love. He jerked, reverting back to the matter at hand. "Division's not the problem right now. Russia's too dangerous for her, and I have another lead to follow. I got her papers and now I need you to take her with you back to the States."

"I'm hardly in the position to adopt her," young Michael hissed.

"She's essential to fighting Skynet, to saving human kind. All I'm asking you to do is to get her a new cover and make sure she gets the training she needs."

"And make sure Division doesn't get wind of her while she's under my charge. Is that all?"

Michael disregarded the heavy sarcasm. He glanced at his watch. "You should go." He remembered this op, their first overseas mission together. He recalled seeing Nikita dressed to the nines with a teasing smile. She had stopped him right before the entering the ballroom of the main event, and picked a piece of lint off his tux. Perfect, she had said, her eyes twinkling darkly. He relived the memory with a small smile. "You don't want to be late for this."

As Michael watched himself walk away with a huff, he felt, of all things, envy, and wondered if this was his punishment for circumventing the laws of time. To fight for a happy ending that could no longer be his, because it was 'his'.

"You look alike. Is he your brother?" Alex asked lightly as she approached him, though she couldn't mask her deliberate attempt to sidestep the elephant in the room. She hadn't been able to eavesdrop on the conversation, but there was an air of finality in the room that left her uneasy.

Michael didn't mince words. "He's coming back, and you're going with him."

Alex inhaled sharply, distraught at the thought of being separated from her guardian angel. "You're sending me away? You can't, please, listen to me. Listen to me, I don't want to go," she pleaded, tugging at his coat sleeve, raggedly beseeching him to change his mind.

"We don't have much time," Michael snapped. He didn't want to hear the guileless desperation in the young girl's voice. "I'm going to talk and you're going to listen."

Further protests were silenced with a stony glare. Her shoulders deflated and Alex gazed up at Michael with doe-like suppliant eyes and a trembling pout, both of which he readily ignored. Michael gripped her forearms and held her still. He could already hear the crunch of bleached skulls beneath a patrolling terminator's foot. Leaning down to her eye level, Michael willed Alex to see the reality of death and destruction behind his eyes as he spoke.

"In the future, you will help lead mankind in a war against Skynet, the computer system programmed to destroy the world..."


	8. An Inverse

Nikita's hands were full of bubbles and a protesting mutt when her cell buzzed in that mechanical trill she both dreaded and anticipated. The dog stopped squirming, its soft brown eyes looking up at her suddenly tense countenance. She tapped a finger over its foam covered nose, smiling again as it burrowed beneath her palm. The cell rang insistently in her pocket. Important. Now. Pick up. She hadn't answered yet and she could already hear Michael admonishing her for her lackadaisical attitude.

"Always so serious," Nikita muttered as she pressed to connect. She sighed dramatically into the speaker. "You just knew I was having too much of a good time, didn't you?"

"My apologies for interrupting you at the animal shelter, Nikita," came the unexpected smooth reply.

Nikita straightened like a soldier at attention. The tracker in her hip throbbed. "Amanda."

"I'd like you to come in."

As if it was an option. Nikita waved over another volunteer to help finish the bath. "I can be there in fifteen," she replied.

"Excellent."

Nikita heard someone else talking before Amanda properly cut them off. Before she could decipher what she heard, Amanda finished tersely, "I'll be expecting you." Nikita blinked at the abrupt dial tone.

She made it to Division in ten minutes and was greeted with echoes of hurried footsteps as she proceeded. On the way to Operations, she spots several agents rushing in and out, their faces lined with tension. Her pace increased until she spotted a familiar figure hunched over the blue glow of his computer screen.

"Hey nerd," Nikita called, snapping her fingers at Birkhoff when he didn't respond. The computer tech jumped as her face came into focus. He blinked at her, his face flashing into a grimace before working its way to nonchalance. "What's going on?"

"You're actually here," Birkhoff muttered under his breath.

"Yes, I came because Amanda called me," Nikita explained with exasperation. A quick glance about Operations set her heart racing. It was Michael's face, the snapshot of his passport, security credentials and background information, spread across the wide screens. "Where's Michael?"

"Question of the day." Birkhoff surreptitiously looked around before leaning towards her, speaking in a low whisper, "Michael's gone rogue. He tried to kill Percy."

Nikita regarded Birkhoff with a bark of laughter and a playful punch that would bruise later. "Are you kidding? Com'on."

He didn't protest, there was no mirth on his lips. A chill gripped the base of her spine. She floundered. "Michael who?"

"Our Michael. The Michael." Birkhoff made a noise between frustration and disappointment. "Percy's in surgery and there was some old dude ranting about a stolen black box prototype. Amanda's called everyone in and she wants everything we have on Michael, what he has for breakfast, like some cereal could have set him off. By the way, I'd stay away from the Coco Puffs."

Nikita crossed her arms. "This is impossible. The only reason Michael's in Division is because of Percy." Michael had told her everything that night in St. Petersburg, the source of his loyalty to Percy. What could have triggered this 180?

Birkhoff turned away, touching his headset as new instructions came in. Nikita stared at Michael's unsmiling profile above her, remembering his stern warnings when she came too close to breaching Division protocols. When she jokingly entertained the idea of escaping from Division, he in turn regaled her stories of those who have tried and been caught.

It wouldn't be him doling out the punishment. It would be Amanda, who had surgical precision in breaking open old scars and carving out new ones. It would be cleaners like Roan, who had neither pity nor remorse and needed no rhyme or reason to kill. The force of the retribution would be many times greater than that of Division's formal enemies. An example must be made. A precautionary tale must be told.

He was Michael. He could have bowed out of Division in ways that didn't include getting on its most wanted list. Why did he do it?

Birkhoff elbowed Nikita, breaking through her thoughts as they listened to the familiar click of heels approaching Operations. "The Inquisition has begun," he announced softly.

As more agents filed into the room, Nikita noted both the familiar and the unfamiliar faces. Division had deeper levels of secrets than she realized. It was that moment that the frayed ends of her thoughts were suddenly entwined, reconnected. Michael, Kasim, and Percy, a tapestry woven from lies and treachery. Why Michael chose to kill Percy if Percy had been key to getting Kasim. It only made sense, if Percy had been behind it all, the puppet master to Kasim's deceit.

Nikita's throat was unbearably bitter as the taste of bile bloomed from her chest. She didn't know where Michael was, but she felt his anguish. How it must pale next to his, knowing that Percy took from him his family, his loyalty, his soul. Nikita turned to Birkhoff, his shoulders stiff as he keyed in the information that brought up more data onto the big screen. "Don't get too attached to this place, Birkhoff. We're all just a means to an end," she murmured shakily.

The only sign that Birkhoff heard her was the pause in his keystrokes. When he started typing again, Michael's picture shrank as additional text was added to the screen. Nikita closed her eyes, but his afterimage continued to burn behind her retinas.

Amanda arrived, impeccably dressed, ever the leader as she spoke.

"As of this morning, the agent all of you know as Michael has gone rogue. He took with him a data storage prototype. The data held within the prototype is highly classified information. We must capture Michael and secure the prototype. He is extremely familiar with our SOP and must be approached with caution."

Regardless how fast word traveled in Division, there were still eyes wide with shock as Amanda made the announcement. Division's second in command had gone rogue, but no one asked Amanda about Percy.

"Michael is our new priority target, threat level six," Amanda continued. "Every operative engaged at that level or lower will be working on this full time." There was a pause and trained agents or not, the sense of unease rippled through the small room. A shitty assignment if there ever was one, going up against the man who trained nearly half of them in the room.

"Nikita will be heading the detail."

Nikita swallowed a gasp, her eyes staring stonily out front. The others, they didn't stare, but she felt their focus as she stood ramrod straight, singled out in the crowd not by the space around her, but by the weight of the objective.

"You have your orders."

The operatives and analysts scattered like ants. Nikita stayed, waiting as Amanda's eyes finally settled on her. Amanda smiled, a stretch of her lips that drove ice down Nikita's spine. The older woman clutched Nikita's hand in an act of reassurance. Nikita compacted her recoil into a mere twitch of her ring finger.

"Nikita, you're our most talented agent. Percy has remarked on your trade craft and I concur. You're more than capable of bringing Michael in."

The calculating glint in Amanda's eyes was there for Nikita to see. She was the lead agent and she was bait—how she wanted to play it was only for Amanda's amusement. The puppet strings were silken threads, she, caught in a spider's web.

"However, Michael trained you and has intimate knowledge of your capabilities." The involuntary flush of Nikita's cheeks didn't escape Amanda's watchful eyes. It only confirmed her decision. "So, I've assigned a partner to you."

"I work better alone," Nikita protested dully. The script was black and white. She didn't snap and she didn't cry.

Amanda offered sympathetically, "No doubt Michael is also aware of that."

Nikita had nothing more to say. Her eyes registered a movement. She never even noticed him, standing silently in the shadows. His movements were like that of a stalking panther, slow circles with the deadly promise of a swift pounce. The shadows clung to him like home until the Operation's dim lights filled him in muted color.

"This is Owen."


	9. The Sides

His boots skipped across the cracked soil as Michael silently descended upon Semak's estate. He was a camouflaged shadow gliding through the dense cover of vegetation, blanketed by the encroaching darkness as sunlight faded in the horizon. Previous reconnaissance indicated this was the hour when the staff changed shifts. One of the guards used slightly more than the requisite time to escort a staff member off the premises, taking the long route. This suited Michael just fine.

Bypassing security at Zetrov's metropolitan headquarters was an easy enough chore, the paperwork and electronic paper trails turned up empty on the coltan. Those guards were visibly armed. Guards on these estate grounds kept their weapons out of view, concealed by their dark suits. It wasn't hard to surmise which ones would exert lethal force. Luckily, Michael was able to sneak through their weakest link. He was be inside before the guard returned.

Semak liked his privacy. Once Michael breached the perimeter, he had free rein over the inner sanctum of the house, including Semak's palatial office. Michael set to copy Semak's hard drive onto the disk he had brought along. As the computer spun, he picked the lock on the lone locked drawer of the wide desk. There was nothing of consequence inside, but the drawer space was short, considering the dimensions of the desk. He brushed around the inside edges with the tips of his fingers until he found an artificial seam. He spared a glance at the computer—the imaging was nearly done—before pressing through the seam and opening the hidden compartment. Inside were two folios, each labeled in dark text with two unfamiliar names. Kaliba Group and Zeira Corporation. He took snapshots of the documents as he flipped through them. Somewhere on the fourth page, he finally spotted it, in black and white. Columbite–tantalite. Coltan. He hastened, quickly snapping an image of each page without reading. Time was running out.

A car door slammed in front of the house. The progress bar on the computer read eighty-five percent. Michael circled the room, finding a closet that he could squeeze into. He leapt back to the desk and disconnected his drive as the screen flashed one hundred percent. The two labeled folios were shoved back into the secret compartment as he shut down the computer. The footsteps were outside now. He shoved himself into the small space, encasing himself in dusty murkiness, as the office doors creaked open. Through a narrow crack, a thin ray of light flickered across his visage like film on screen, presenting the entrance of Sergei Semak and an unknown red headed woman.

"I heard about your husband, Ms. Weaver. I'm very sorry."

"You didn't cause the helicopter crash. An apology is unnecessary," the woman replied with a Scottish brogue.

Semak eyes crinkled as he peered at the woman, slightly bemused. Nevertheless, he revised smoothly, "My condolences then."

"Thank you," Weaver accepted. She blinked and continued tonelessly, "I've come to ask about the sample you provided."

"Is there a problem?" Semak asked lazily before turned to his liquor cabinet, appearing far more interested in perusing through the golden liquids, full with confidence that Weaver could find nothing wrong. He was not wrong.

"No. The quality has exceeded my expectations. I'm interested to see your refinement process," she remarked, sly words from impassive face.

Semak was Michael's target. The man held information about the coltan and was possibly a metal collaborator. But try as he might, Michael couldn't take his eyes off Weaver. There was an unnerving quality about the woman. It was under such an instinctive scrutiny that Michael observed the melting of Weaver's foot. Her foot took on the silver sheen of mercury and the long shape of a hydra's new born head as Michael watched, wide-eyed. It budded off Weaver's human shaped body, twisting softly, slithering under Semak's desk. Michael bit through the inner flesh of his left cheek, silencing the hiss of his open mouthed gasp.

Only ignorance could explain why Semak kept his back turned against the liquid metal.

"I'm afraid our refinement process is a trade secret. But I can assure you that the November shipment will be of the same quality."

"Then I wish to move the ship date to September. I can provide a five percent surcharge. Will that be a problem?"

Semak considered this for a few scant seconds. "No, no problem."

"You have enough man power?" Weaver probed.

Semak's lips curled. "Man power is something I'm definitely not worried about right now. As long as this can be handled as quietly as possible."

"Of course. My company will ensure its passage to the US as long as you can provide the coltan."

"It's settled then. Ah. There it is." Semak finally picked out a decanter, offering it to her with a wide smile. "Scotch?"

"No thank you," Weaver answered with swift apathy. "My offices will deliver the paperwork before the shipment's departure. Good-bye." She exited with the same exacting footsteps as she entered, gone before Semak could get in another word, leaving a piece of herself behind to siphon information from Semak's computer.

Once Semak heard Weaver's car drove off, he did away with his liquor preoccupation and dialed up his office phone.

"We need to move up the schedule," he spoke Russian into the mouthpiece. He frowned into the phone, at the voice on the other side. "I'm not a fool. Those men of yours, they don't eat, they don't sleep, they can have the coltan ready by the end of this month if pushed. This deal is as good an opportunity as any to get the coltan into the US without raising flags. You can have your men steal it from Weaver when it lands. It'll never be connected to me or Kaliba."

It was ten minutes later that Semak vacated his office and Michael timed his big exit to another shift change in the guards. He didn't know if the piece of metal caught his escape, though there was no outward sign that it did. Another ten minutes later, his boots hit finally hit black gravel, his getaway car within visual range. Yet, each step he took was heavier than the last. The expanse of his vision was filled with the burned image of that thing, the liquid metal with the ability to masquerade as a woman, shapeshift and multiply. Michael never thought he would see such an abomination in the past, when Skynet was still an unborn horror. They were already here, models more advanced than those he'd seen in the future.

Too late.

Michael discovered too late, the immediate danger in the backseat of his car. The cold muzzle of a gun pressed tightly under his jaw. There was no time to formulate a response even as the passenger door opened and a sharply dressed man slid neatly into the seat.

"You've been poking around places where you shouldn't," the Russian admonished.

Michael stared into the face of Ari Tasarov as a blunt force from behind abruptly covered the world in black. He greeted oblivion with a tiny smile. If this was his death, at least the last face he saw was that of a human, and not the gleaming skull of a terminator.


	10. The Addiction

Nikita tossed on a short navy jacket, effectively covering the gauze that wrapped around her right bicep. A bullet graze from her latest mission. She would have rather gone without it, but the doctor in medical was sycophantic about treating every scratch and bruise. It came with the territory of being a top Division agent, and the second in command in everything but name.

Michael's office was her office now, but other than the initial sweep, everything he used remained where it was. She felt his presence when she entered the room; smelled him every time she crashed on his couch. She couldn't bring herself redecorate and Amanda remained taciturn on the decor. Nikita wondered if Amanda was doing it on purpose, letting everything stay the way it was before Michael went rogue. Nikita smiled mirthlessly. Of course she was, psychological warfare was her specialty.

Owen was already there as Nikita strolled into Operations. Birkhoff looked up eagerly at Nikita's arrival, pointedly ignoring Owen's hovering, neck-breathing shadow. Nikita came up close to Owen, uncomfortably so, and stared blankly at him until he shrugged and took a step back.

Birkhoff uttered a 'thanks' under his breath before proceeding with his latest discovery. "Okay, boy…and girl. Remember those fingerprints we found at Michael's apartment? How we never found a match?" He glanced expectantly at a silent Nikita and Owen and then muttered something about Michael being a chatterbox.

"Anyway! Check it. You're about to see some big brother badassery. Citadel Academy, a military prep school, uploaded supplementary student data—including fingerprints-on to their server this morning and two hours later, Shadownet picked it up and flagged a match…"

"Don't keep us in suspense or anything," Owen muttered dryly.

Birkhoff started, then went on to calling up the data with a quirk of his lips.

The name and face of a young brunette flickered on the overhead digital display.

Nikita's brow crinkled as she stared at the girl's portrait, drawn to the two dimensional image that appeared to animate in her mind with startling familiarity. The memory was an elusive, intangible mist. It came to her with a physical reaction. Her nose suddenly stung and her lungs squeezed painfully. Nikita coughed into her hand, her jaw tightening behind the concave of her palm. She forced herself to inhale a pressured hiss. No, not a mist, but a face behind smoke, fire, and blood.

"Alex," Nikita breathed, her eyes a shadowed revelation of alarm and dread.

Birkhoff nodded, continuing, "Last name Winslow. Seventeen years old. Straight As with distinguishing marks in combatives, marksmanship, munitions, strategic planning, field leadership, war games, blah blah blah. It's like the girl wants to run her own private army or something. And outside of school, we have her birth certificate, passport, social, and medical records. All of them are squeaky clean…"

Nikit didn't dare to speak, for fear she blurt out something incriminating, something she couldn't possibly have known had she been looking at Alex for the first time.

Owen gave Nikita a sidelong glance. Even if she always played her cards close to her chest, she was being uncharacteristically quiet. He caught Birkhoff's eyes, but the tech didn't even bother to shrug. Owen crossed his arms with a huff and offered, "Ok, why were her prints found at Michael's? Are they related somehow?"

"Distant and immediate relatives all accounted for, no match. Maybe it's for recruitment. Girl seems pretty badass," Birkhoff admitted begrudgingly. "Although she doesn't fit the profile of our usual strung out crackheads." Then as if he just remembered he was in the presence of two former drug addicts, Birkhoff hastily amended, "No offense."

Owen flashed Birkhoff a toothy grin.

"What about her parents?" Nikita asked thinly, chewing the insides of her cheek.

Birkhoff's series of keyboard taps produced another screen of data. "They both died in a car crash when Alex was three. A Daniel Pope is on the records as her guardian. Home address is a P.O. Box. Phone number traces to a disposable. Can't trace bank records either, tuition and some sort of stipend are already prepaid to graduation, looks like it was paid in cash."

"Girl's background too convenient and Daniel Pope went through a lot of trouble to keep himself untraceable. Could be Michael," Owen speculated.

Birkhoff shrugged, "Well, it's not a Division alias or we would have caught it already."

"So if it's him, he's not doing it for Division." Owen frowned, puzzled.

Nikita flattened her lips just as they started to tremble. Owen and Birkhoff continued to debate on the discovery, but she knew Michael did it to save her. Somehow he'd found out about Alex and realized Division would cancel her if Alex was discovered. The more she walked in Michael's Division shoes, the more she came to realize how much Michael had done for her despite protocol, despite judgment, despite reason. How was it possible that she was continuing to fall in love with him, when he was no longer here, when he had just disappeared without so much as a good-bye? There were still moments in her day, when she would try to look for a sign, any sign, that Michael was waiting for the right opportunity to approach her, so that they could be free of Division together. No sign ever came.

As much as a part of her wanted to just leave it all behind, start anew and be free of the constant turbulence of emotions, Nikita couldn't help but remember how adamant Amanda was that the black box Michael took was a time bomb. If it exploded, Division was the only resource Nikita had that was capable of helping him. Meanwhile, the only way to protect him was to be the one chasing after him. And with her new standing in Division, she had at least some influence in how the recruits fared. Second guessing was fatal in the spy business, but for all the questionable decisions she made, she couldn't help but wonder, what would Michael have done?

Nikita wasn't even sure what she wanted anymore. Division was limbo, and the only thing she could do was live day by day, doing the best she could, suspended into a frozen state by forces that were out of her control.

Until now.

"We should question Alex to see what she knows," Owen decided once they were back in her office.

"No!" Nikita retorted vehemently, "We found her prints in Michael's apartment—it could have gotten there any number of innocuous ways. You know perfectly well what we do with people who find out about Division."

"Yeah, I do," Owen answered flatly.

Nikita caught the brief grimace across her own face. Her eyes fluttered in a silent apology. She appealed softly, "She's just a kid, Owen."

Owen shifted his gaze on a dark spot in the carpet. Some stains can never be cleaned. Finally, he glanced up to meet Nikita's dark eyes. "What do you suggest we do then?"

Light animated Nikita's shadowed face as she sprung into action at Owen's words. Her plan would require a lot of prep work, both on the official level and beneath Division's radar. She called up the information on Citadel Academy on the flat screen. "I'm going undercover. I'll get her to tell me what she knows without exposing her to Division."

"And what would I be doing in this plan of yours?" Owen asked, still against the energy vibrating from Nikita.

"You can follow up on any leads I get from her," Nikita replied as a matter of course.

Owen flexed his jaw. "So I'm supposed to wait in the car until you get something out of her."

"I don't see a problem."

"We're supposed to be partners on this."

Not if she was going to pull this off. Now was a good time as ever to pull rank. "We're working together but I'm still the lead agent, so we're going to do this my way, my rules. Say it."

A tech poked her head in the door. "Nikita, you're wanted in Amanda's office, now."

Nikita didn't move. "Owen."

Owen smiled crookedly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I know how to follow orders. Your rules. No cleaning, got it."

Nikita's mouth fell open to protest, but the words never finished making their way out of her mouth before Owen pivoted and left. She couldn't dwell on that any further, there were other priorities now.

There was another in Amanda's office when Nikita arrived. From the soft waves of blonde curls and the rigid shoulders, Nikita surmised who she was before seeing her face.

"Nikita." Kelly's smile was not unfriendly, if perfunctory.

Nikita nodded in acknowledgement before taking a seat at the table. "Kelly."

The click of tastefully expensive heels proceeded Amanda before she entered the room. She sat with a grace that both agents could only emulate.

"Now that we're all here," Amanda said with a perfected curve of her lips, "I've called the both of you here because this mission not only has a small window, you'll be entering enemy territory, and your objective will be the retrieval of a hostile asset."

"Amanda," Nikita interrupted. She paused, deliberating the risks before continuing, "We have a lead on Michael, I need to be on top of it."

"I'm aware. This mission needs you, Nikita. Owen can perform the preliminary surveillance until your return. As I said, we have a small window for this operation." Amanda's expressively placid face brokered no further arguments.

"You said Michael was a priority," Nikita responded stiffly.

Amanda said nothing and switched on the flat screen on the opposite wall. The image of a man exiting a nondescript door was all they had available. "Ari Tasarov. Nikita, you were the last person in Division to successfully infiltrate Gogol's defenses and return alive. You came closest to removing him."

His eight year old son had been in the way, Nikita thought mutedly, her eyes downcast.

As if satisfied with Nikita's silence as acquiescence, Amanda continued, "He's been a frequent visitor of a Gogol detention facility in Ankara. We have intel that one of the prisoners has special insight into a range of delicate proceedings. Tasarov is relocating the prisoner to an unknown location. Your mission is to intercept the transport and retrieve the prisoner. We don't know the disposition of the prisoner, so you're to treat him as a hostile asset."

The blood in Nikita's veins pulsed like battle drums. The mission was an intensely dangerous one, and if she was to succeed, she had to focus on the task at hand.

"This is a two man operation. You'll find the standard cover credentials and the latest intel in your brief. Birkhoff will be on hand to coordinate with you and provide updates on their movements via satellite imagery and CCTV. Arial transport to Esenboga International is in two hours."

Two hours of prep was hardly enough, but at least Kelly knew Nikita's style and understood what needed to be done before liftoff. Sure enough, Kelly closed her brief with a snap and she was out the door before Nikita was barely out of her seat. At least someone capable would be watching her back, Nikita mused.

Nikita was at the door before Amanda spoke again.

"Nikita, has Michael tried to contact you?"

Nikita stiffened. "Why would he, I'm in charge of catching him." She kicked the resentful tone up a notch. It wasn't hard.

Amanda gave her a sympathetic smile. Behind those stretched crimson lips were all teeth. "He's not the person we all thought he was," Amanda sighed, just on the edge of dramatic.

The urge the roll her eyes, now that was hard to suppress. Nikita knew there was more to come.

"Nikita, Michael is a priority, but we must also continue doing what Division does best, removing threats to national security. The sooner you complete this mission, the sooner you're free to see where this lead we have will take you," Amanda's voice soothed hypnotically before she laying a playful touch at Nikita's elbow, "No pressure."

Nikita blinked at her. "I'll be back," she emphasized. Michael and Alex were hers. Her love. Her redemption. The only good things in her life.

Amanda canted her head like she hadn't expected otherwise. "Of course."

Nikita imagined herself shaking a fist at the woman. Then it was no longer difficult to smile smoothly at the Division leader. She nodded and headed out, feeling Amanda's reptilian eyes behind her, but there was nothing to do but look ahead.

Hope was the most addictive opiate.


End file.
